The Escape From Home

  “Clemspool?”

  “From London. He’s been … here before. A commercial traveler. He came up this morning. He said … the boy was his son.”

  “Did he?”

  “I’m afraid you have only just missed the gentleman. He came in but left almost immediately. Some sudden business to attend to, he said.”

  “Was the boy with him?”

  “No, sir, now that you mention it, he was not.”

  Mr. Pickler nodded. “I should very much like to inspect his rooms,” he said. “Immediately!”

  “Sir, I’m not altogether certain that we can allow—”

  The investigator leaned forward. “Mr. Hudson,” he all but whispered, “I believe that I have already mentioned my connection to Lord Kirkle. If that boy upstairs should prove to be his lordship’s son, and if he were found to have been illegally detained in your establishment …”

  Mr. Hudson held up a hand. “Sir, if you would be so good as to step this way, I shall be happy to show you the rooms.”

  Mr. Clemspool’s rooms, however, were deserted. A quick search did allow Mr. Pickler to find a suit of new boy’s clothes as well as a bottle of tincture of rhubarb. He held the bottle up.

  “Ah, yes,” Mr. Hudson said. “Mr. Clemspool informed us that the boy was taken ill. There was a need to send for the apothecary.”

  Mr. Pickler sniffed the contents. “I suspect there is more here than the label suggests,” he said, recorking and pocketing the bottle.

  “Why … what do you mean, sir?”

  “I suspect the boy has fled. Come.” Mr. Pickler led the way to the farther room. “You see the curtain. I believe he went out that way.”

  “But why? And where?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “Mr. Clemspool has not checked out, has he?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And these other articles, clothing, traveling bag, they do belong to him?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then there’s good reason to believe this Mr. Clemspool will return. I will stay here until he does.”

  “But …”

  “Another question, Mr. Hudson.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When I first asked you about Mr. Clemspool, you said he had been here before. A commercial traveler, I believe you said. Did he come with other young people?”

  “He has a very large family and—”

  Mr. Pickler lifted a hand to interrupt. “Mr. Hudson,” he said softly, “if I were in your position, I would find it prudent to cooperate to the fullest extent.” He fixed his round eyes upon Mr. Hudson’s flushed face.

  “Well, yes, sir, I am,” the man said in haste. “Absolutely. This is a respectable establishment. We wish to show our full cooperation.”

  “Mr. Hudson, sir,” Mr. Pickler said as he took a seat, “I do hope that proves to be the case.”

  You must not fret, my dear,” Mr. Drabble said to Maura soothingly when she had discovered that Patrick was not in the basement. “The boy may simply have wandered off to one of the upper rooms. If you sit here,” he suggested, “I’ll make the rounds above. I know the way. There isn’t a room I’ve not occupied.” So saying, he hurried off.

  Full of foreboding, blaming herself for having left her brother alone on his own, Maura stayed at the top of the basement steps.

  All too soon Mr. Drabble returned and admitted he’d found no sign of the boy. “Of course,” he went on hopefully, “there are many rooms, and all are stuffed. Bodies here, there, everywhere. Mostly your countrymen. Do you know, they say 1851 will be a bumper year for emigrants. More than likely your Patrick is tucked off in a corner where I failed to notice him.”

  Maura shook her head. “Mr. Drabble, my brother’s a mischievous lad. There’s no telling where he’s gone off to,” she said.

  “What do you want to do?” Mr. Drabble asked.

  “I need some better air to think,” she said. The two went to the front of the house and sat on the steps. The cold evening made her shiver.

  “Perhaps he merely took to wandering, to see the sights,” Mr. Drabble suggested after a while. “A young person’s normal curiosity. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “It’s as likely as not,” Maura agreed, holding herself as though the tension she felt might burst through her chest. “Why, even back to home, in Kilonny, which is—was—a tiny place, he’d trot off alone, roaming here and there with nothing like a by-your-leave. It drove my mother near mad, and it’ll do the same to me.” Suddenly she turned toward Mr. Drabble. “Do you think it possible someone stole him?”

  “Did he have any money on his person?” Mr. Drabble asked, his voice low.

  “I have it all.”

  “I should rather think—from what you say of the boy—it’s more likely he followed us when we went off. I could return to the square and look about.”

  “Are you looking for a boy?”

  “My brother,” Maura exclaimed to whomever had spoken. “He’s gone.”

  “A small Irish lad with big eyes and hair as black as coal?” the voice asked.

  “That’s him!” Maura peered into the dark. In the far corner of the porch, a woman was sitting propped up against the house, bare feet thrust before her.

  Maura knelt by her. “Is it my brother you think you may have seen?”

  “Well now, lass, perhaps I did. I can’t say for sure, can I? But earlier this evening a runner came by, pulling in a man and his wife.”

  “A runner!”

  “It was indeed. As soon as that boy—the black-haired one—seen him, he came clattering up the steps. So excited he was that he wedged himself into the corner, next to me.”

  “But why?”

  “I supposed it was that runner.”

  “Did the runner try to catch him?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like. I’ll wager he never saw the boy.”

  A fearful thought came to Maura. “Can you tell me what the runner looked like?” she asked tremulously.

  “He was young, you know,” the woman said, “like most of ’em are. Tricked out in sailor’s gob. Full of swagger and silver swift with his tongue. Bright too, with a hard smile, I’ll give him that.”

  Maura turned to Mr. Drabble, who had come to her side. “Mr. Toggs,” she said wretchedly.

  “I didn’t catch his name,” the woman continued. “All I know is that as soon as he left his pigeons with Mrs. Sonderbye and went off, that boy—your brother, if that’s the one—skipped right along after him. And that’s all I saw, miss.”

  Maura murmured a thanks; then she and Mr. Drabble retreated to the steps to sit side by side.

  “Do you think that’s what happened?” he asked.

  “Lord protect him,” Maura sighed as much to herself as to him. “It must have been.”

  “Those runners can be repellent,” Mr. Drabble felt obliged to say, hearing the anxiety in the girl’s voice. “They move in gangs. And the worst of it is, my dear, what they do is strictly legal.”

  “But didn’t he lie to us?” Maura cried indignantly, so angry her fists clenched.

  “For sure he did,” Mr. Drabble agreed. “I’m only pointing out that what they do is not against the law. Be honest, my dear, did this Mr. Toggs force you to come here?”

  Maura had to shake her head. “It was his deceitful talk that led us to this dreadful place.”

  “It hasn’t been all so bad, has it?” the actor asked with a tender sidelong glance.

  Maura, caught up in worry, neither saw the look nor heard Mr. Drabble’s tone. “Perhaps,” she speculated, “Patrick was blaming himself for the way he was fooled by Mr. Toggs. But, faith, what could he imagine doing if he caught up with the rogue?” she wondered out loud.

  The actor had no answer.

  Maura pressed her hands together tightly. Her head ached. Her heart was sore. “Mr. Drabble,” she said, her voice shaking, “I don’t know what to do.”

&nbsp
; “My dear, if I might offer a suggestion, I think it would be wise for you to get some sleep. We can’t really search again until the morning comes.

  “Tomorrow,” he went on, “we’ll use every waking moment.”

  “But you have your reading lessons to give to that man, Mr. Drabble,” Maura reminded him.

  “Never mind that! It’s far more important that we find Patrick.”

  “But your fare money …,” Maura started to protest.

  “Not until we find him,” Mr. Drabble said resolutely.

  “Mr. Drabble,” Maura said, her breath coming hard, “you’re a great mercy to me. Wouldn’t I be altogether lost without you?”

  The man placed hand to heart. His eyes grew bright.

  The two returned to the dark basement.

  “Come over here by this wall,” Mr. Drabble suggested, stepping gingerly across two pairs of outstretched legs. “It’s the driest area.”

  Maura crept toward the sound of his voice, raked some straw into a meager pile, then lay down on the cold ground. After a while she said, “Mr. Drabble, when we left our sad home in Ireland, we had three tickets for the ship to America. One for me, one for Patrick, and the third for my unhappy mother. Wasn’t it my father’s good money that’s paid for it all. But with Mother choosing not to come, don’t we have that extra ticket. You’ve been so very generous. And here you are now, passing up your own chance of emigrating by looking for my Patrick. Mr. Drabble, sir, it’s to you I’d like to give the ticket.”

  “Miss O’Connell,” the man stammered, “you cannot know how much you have touched my heart. For once I am at a loss for words.”

  “Merely say you’ll take the ticket then,” Maura pressed.

  “My dear, I will if you wish it. But whose name is on the ticket?”

  “My mother’s.”

  “How is it written?”

  “Mrs. Gregory O’Connell.”

  “Would you be offended if I took the s from Mrs.?. I could pretend to be your father.”

  “No,” Maura whispered.

  “But more importantly, we shall find your brother,” Mr. Drabble assured her. “Now do get some sleep. Good-night. And God bless you.”

  “God bless you,” Maura returned.

  Lying upon the ground, her head cushioned in her arms, Maura tried to think of everything that had happened that day. It was all too much. She could not hold it together. Instead, she stared into the dark and listened to the breath of sleepers. She tried to pray, but the words would not come. Is it my faith I’m leaving too? she asked herself tearfully. Her answer was a sob. “Oh, Mother, what if I have lost him?” Maura murmured as she fell into fitful sleep.

  The boy has bolted,” Mr. Clemspool told Mr. Grout.

  The two sat in a small spirit shop not far from the elegant hotel where Toby Grout had established himself. He was propped lazily against his side of the bench, a glass of gin before him. He sipped it noisily, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eye was bright with amusement.

  “Well now, there’s a singular business,” he drawled. “’Ow did that ’appen?”

  “After we last spoke,” Mr. Clemspool explained, “I went out. When I returned to my hotel room, everything seemed satisfactory. Nothing amiss. The boy’s door was locked as I had left it. I called to him. ‘Are you asleep?’ I inquired. When there was no answer, I assumed he was. But, just to be sure—you know me, Mr. Grout, for the careful man I am—I entered his room. He was gone.”

  “And yer always tellin’ me there are no imps and goblins,” Mr. Grout declared ardently.

  “There is nothing of the other world about it! He went out the window. Slid down a curtain to the next roof.”

  Mr. Grout whistled with admiration. “Regular gamecock, ’e is. I’d like to meet that laddie.”

  “I need hardly tell you I was shocked,” Mr. Clemspool continued. “After all my care and consideration—and expense.” He shook his head gloomily. “It’s hard to accept, especially when you recall I am merely helping him do what he desires to do. Younger sons,” he said with a disparaging wave of a hand, “you simply cannot trust them.”

  “And it don’t speak too good for yer business, Mr. Clemspool, now does it?” said Mr. Grout with something of a smirk.

  The bald man bridled. “How was I to know he might go out a fourth-floor window!”

  Mr. Grout took another pull of his gin. “Wot about that sleepin’ medicine ’e was supposed to be takin’?”

  “I don’t believe he even touched it.”

  Mr. Grout leaned over the table. “Think ’e came to know wot’s in it? Yer know, evidence.”

  Mr. Clemspool frowned. He was not enjoying the interrogation.

  Mr. Grout, who was enjoying it, tapped his friend’s arm. “Seems to me, Mr. Matthew Clemspool, this ’ere laddie ’as tricked yer game. I suspect ’e might ’ave some notion of the deck yer ’olding.”

  Mr. Clemspool shifted uneasily. “I don’t know how he could.”

  “Lads on their own learn fast.”

  “Never mind what he’s learned,” Mr. Clemspool retorted with deepening gloom, “the point is, what does he intend to do?”

  Mr. Grout laughed. “Depends on whether or not ’e’s made the connection ’tween yer and ’is brother.”

  The very thought made Mr. Clemspool look up with dismay. “There is no way he could have!” he cried.

  Mr. Grout grinned.

  Now it was Mr. Clemspool’s turn to lean across the table. “Mr. Grout, you know perfectly well I do absolutely nothing illegal. Nothing.”

  “Wot kind of family does that boy of yers come from?”

  Mr. Clemspool’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Grout,” he said, his voice quivering with righteousness, “quite recently you came into a large sum of money, is that not correct?”

  The other’s smile grew broader. “Me magical in’eritance, yer meaning?”

  “Your whatever-it-is,” Mr. Clemspool said, pointing a plump accusatory finger at Mr. Grout. “I do not inquire about your business secrets. You need not inquire about mine. That has long been our understanding. I don’t see why that should change now.”

  “All I’m sayin’,” Mr. Grout replied laughingly, “is this: If that there boy’s father is ’igh and mighty, it wouldn’t matter much wot yer did or didn’t do, would it? Give me a stack of cash over a stack of laws any day.

  “Look ’ere, Clemspool,” Mr. Grout drawled on, “it seems to me yer in a bit of a squeeze, ain’t yer?”

  “I don’t believe the boy’s gone back to London if that’s what you mean,” Mr. Clemspool answered sulkily.

  “And why is that?”

  “He has no money.”

  “’Ow do yer know?”

  “Because I made sure of it.”

  Mr. Grout laughed out loud. “Did yer then, Mr. I-do-nothin’-illegal?”

  Mr. Clemspool’s face turned pinker than normal.

  His companion went on. “Well then, stands to reason ’e’s got to be somewhere in Liverpool, right? Let ’im be, says I. ’E won’t be the first stuck ’ere. ’E won’t be the last. All I’m sayin’, Clemspool, is you might think of comin’ to America with me.”

  “My work is here.”

  “As may be. But this time I’ve got the cash—a lot of it.”

  “Me? Work for you?” Mr. Clemspool asked with scorn.

  Mr. Grout sat up very straight, staring with his one eye. “Why shouldn’t yer? I worked yer game. Now yer can work mine.”

  “Mr. Grout! To make my point precisely, I am a gentleman!”

  “Well, I’m nearly one,” Mr. Grout replied. “I’m on me way to bein’ educated. Got me first readin’ lesson tomorrow. I’ll be talkin’ like a regular shake-the-spear in no time.”

  Mr. Clemspool glanced toward heaven, as if only the powers there could bring off such a transformation. “The question remains, what shall I do about the boy?”

  “Have yer thought of goin’ to the police?” Mr. Grout inquire
d.

  The absurdity of the suggestion was enough to make Mr. Clemspool rise from his seat. “Mr. Grout, I think it would be better if I left before we fall into serious argument. I’m going to walk about. Perhaps I’ll see him.”

  Mr. Grout laughed. “Yer know where to find me if need be. And, Clemspool, me offer still stands! Off to America with Toby Grout! Yer’ll be safe there.”

  Mr. Clemspool, as if he had not heard the remark—though he had—hurried into the street. Lanterns had been lit. Windows glowed with candlelight. It was not the darkness, however, that prevented Mr. Clemspool from setting off. He simply did not know where to begin his further searches.

  For a while he even entertained Mr. Grout’s suggestion that he go to the police. It was too risky. He did not wish to engage with the law in any fashion. He saw, therefore, only two choices. He could give the boy up as a bad job, return to London, acknowledge his loss, and pursue business elsewhere. There were plenty of sons to deal with.

  Or he could invest more time in searching for the boy. Mr. Grout had made one good point—since Sir Laurence had no money, he had to be in the city somewhere.

  Mr. Clemspool plucked his watch from his waistcoat and consulted it. There was a night train to London at ten. But to rush off now seemed hasty. He could leave in the morning in more leisurely fashion. That meant he could continue searching for a few more hours. And by God, he told himself, if he caught up with the boy, he would not be so sweet.

  Bestir yourself,” the voice pleaded into Laurence’s ear. “They might be coming back.”

  Laurence lay upon his back. His head was whirling. He had to force himself to open his eyes. Out of the darkness, a face peered down at him. It was Patrick.

  “I heard what that fellow was saying,” he whispered urgently. “So I ran back to the sentry box and called the police. Their coming scared him off. Only you best get away before they return. They’re like to be after you too no matter what I say.”

  Laurence struggled upright and faced the boy kneeling by his side. To his eyes Patrick seemed nothing but a beggar, and—from the way he talked—an Irish one at that.